


As In The Days Of Old

by lucdarling



Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: Community: tsn_kinkmeme, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-18
Updated: 2011-10-18
Packaged: 2017-10-24 18:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucdarling/pseuds/lucdarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eduardo gets really bad migraines, but has a habit of ignoring them up until the point where they get too bad to ignore. This happens at one of the shareholders' meetings; Luckily, Mark knows what to do and takes care of Eduardo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As In The Days Of Old

**Author's Note:**

> Written anonymously for the LiveJournal Community TSN_kinkmeme in March 2011.

Mark is half-listening to his production engineer tell the shareholders about the new profile layout they are planning to roll out in a week when his eye is caught further down the table. He turns his head slightly to get a better view but it's not as if he doesn't know who it is.

Eduardo doesn't look up when he feels Mark's stare settle on him, concentrating on pouring his third glass of water. He's been thirstier than usual lately and listening to a random face babble on about how the photos of a person will be in a line on the sidebar isn't helping the growing headache. (Do the shareholders really need to know the ins and outs of every change? They'll be here at least another hour, especially with the inane questions the man two seats down asks.) The fluorescent lights in the conference room shine down on the table's reflection, glinting off the bright metal pitchers Eduardo's sure a PR person set out – it was never a conscious effort by Mark to make others comfortable, if he noticed them at all. He chances a look at his friend (and they are friends now, in a fashion. Cordial, frosty greetings over canapés and flute glasses at charity galas have merged into the occasional email but it's more like he and Mark are acquaintances with history hanging in the air between them.) and yes, the genius still has pale eyes resting on him. Eduardo closes his eyes, leaning back in his seat as Mark stands. The pain behind his eyes is growing but he hopes there's no sign on his face; he resists the urge to rub his temples in hope it would change anything. Mark's voice is confident but it doesn't _stop_ , the cadence of the words matching the pulsing in his head. He opens his eyes, waiting until the nausea settles back into his throat to stand.

Mark watches the neat, composed form halfway down the table excuse himself and make his way to the door. He breaks off when Wardo disappears from his view, turning to the engineer from before. “You can handle this?” His hands wave in a motion encompassing the powerpoint behind him and the table before them, eyes resting briefly on the staff in front of him before returning to the door Eduardo practically fell into. Mark gives a quick look around, checking that his staff is wired in so hardly anyone was a witness to the ungraceful exit (he knows Eduardo will worry about that later). He leaves the room, paying no attention to the one or two whispers that are in his wake.

The lights for the bathrooms aren't any better than those for the work stations, it turns out. Eduardo's head throbs and he stumbles into a stall before leaning over the toilet. The action is disgusting and reminiscent of Harvard, or maybe the last time the migraine reached this stage. He swears to himself, voice low and soft as the door opens. Eduardo reaches up to shut the stall door but has to rid himself of yet more bile – he hopes the other occupant is kind enough to ignore him and finish up his business. A warm hand comes to rest on his back, underneath his suit jacket and Eduardo uses more Portuguese to fill the silence in between his panting breaths as the digits spread out in a one-handed massage. When it's apparent Mark isn't going to stop the soothing motion (he doesn't even have to turn his head to look, because who else would it be?) Eduardo gives up on turning him away and focuses on not falling over.

Mark's nose wrinkles as Wardo heaves, bent in half over the bowl. He keeps his hand on Wardo's back, rubbing circles like he remembers his mother doing for him when he was sick. Mark knows migraines aren't quite the same thing as the flu, but he figures it's close enough. He reaches out, sliding his hand around to curve around Wardo while he contorts his body into an awkward crouch to keep the other man from falling into the wall. His brain is occupied with where Wardo would have put his medication and if his office would be dark enough with the blinds drawn.

Eduardo feels steady hands, soft pressure steering his blind form towards the sink, Mark's low voice warning him he's in front of the sink. He doesn't dare open his eyes in case the light sets off a new round of vomit so he takes the paper cup of cool water and rinses his mouth out. He places his hand on Mark's forearm, squeezing once when they're walking through the offices for reasons he can't name to himself at the moment. There is the constant thrum of computer fans, the relentless click clack of keyboards and Mark's cool hand over his closed-tight eyes as he glides forward on carpet. They come to a stop in a room that dims quickly with the sound of automatic blinds, door shutting behind them and still Eduardo doesn't open his eyes. The thumb with its rough callus strokes his cheekbone, light as a feather, a whisper of memory, as Mark presses him gently down into a soft couch.

Mark turns away from the other man's curled form, dress shirt stretched tight across his back as Wardo presses his face into the couch of Mark's office. He leaves the office and walks back to the conference room, noting absently the meeting is over as he rifles through Wardo's briefcase for any sort of medicine bottle. It's been years since Harvard and Mark remembers that the Brazilian-American always let his migraines reach the worst levels of bad before he'd take his pills. His fingers skim on rounded plastic and he yanks the orange bottle from the depths, stuffing it in his hoodie pocket, one hand wrapped around it tightly. The pills rattle as he walks back into the office, grabbing a half-empty water bottle from his desk and crouching next to Wardo's imitation of a hedgehog. Mark reaches out to tuck dark brown hair behind an ear and Wardo stirs. “Mark?”

Eduardo pulls himself up slowly using the back of the couch as leverage then tips his head back. The room is dim enough that he can see the outline of Mark's body against the glass door and light in the office outside. He watches his friend from lowered lashes, lean fingers twisting a familiar child-proof cap on and off orange-tinted plastic. Mark presses a sweating water bottle into his hands and Eduardo obediently swallows down the chalky aftertaste. It's a surprise when Mark settles on one end of the couch, laptop still sitting open on the desk a few feet away. He reaches out and Eduardo blinks as the room tilts and he's suddenly looking at Mark from below, head in his lap. It takes a few moments for the room to stop spinning horrifically but Eduardo feels fingers tentatively press into his scalp, pressing harder as familiarity returns, running back and forth in a calming motion like this was years earlier.

Mark watches as dark eyes slide shut, nearly inaudible sigh escaping Wardo's mouth. He doesn't stop running his fingers through what was perfectly coiffed hair, trying not to think of the hair product that's now clinging to his fingers. Mark thinks instead of quiet days at Harvard when he leaned against the headboard and kept Wardo company for the hours it took him to fall into sleep. He looks down again, thumb rubbing absent circles on Wardo's temple and watches the tension lines smooth out, body relaxing in Morpheus' grip. When he wakes up and can face the world on his own, Mark will write out the code that's starting to form in his head.


End file.
